


Extraction Protocol

by HastaLux



Series: Breaking Point [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Greg Lestrade, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mycroft Whump, POV Greg Lestrade, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 05:58:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux
Summary: Greg's POV on the events of Breaking Point:Mycroft has been taken. Greg will do anything in his power to get his husband back.





	Extraction Protocol

**Author's Note:**

> I would strongly recommend that you [read Breaking Point first](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16727505), if you haven't yet. 
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful Fandom Trumps Hate auction winner for the prompt!

It’s not the first time Mycroft has been gone for days at a time. It’s still there on the calendar, taunting him:  _ M At Conference  _ scrawled in pen, with an arrow drawn across. He’d been coming home, the first few nights, but it’s never guaranteed. Greg made a lasagna the first night, just in case Mycroft wandered in at some ungodly hour and needed something quick to reheat, but sometimes when he’s busy like this he comes home too late to want to eat anything and only wants to sleep. Greg tries not to press him about it- he knows Mycroft gets drained by the constant threats, bombs, terrorists, and foreign governments who never play nice. This one has already gotten under Mycroft’s skin, and Greg spent two nights just holding him until he fell asleep, murmuring into his hair.

He hasn’t come home for days now.

The call, when it comes, feels like being stabbed. Anthea’s voice is calm, but he can hear it by the first syllable. Hell, he’s  _ made _ this call a hundred times himself, he knows what it sounds like. “Greg, something’s happened. I need you to come in.”

The office- the real office, not one of the various ones Mycroft maintains for different meetings- is not far from the River House, in an innocuous little alley that dead-ends to a door. He turns to look at the camera secreted in the wall, knowing for once that it’s not his husband’s eyes on the other side.

She’s waiting for him after he pulls in, not looking nearly as put together as she usually does. “Anthea….” His hands curl in his pockets, knuckles whitening. He doesn’t want to ask. 

He has to ask.

“Where’s Mycroft?”

She looks down. He can feel his heart shattering slowly with every beat, like a hammer tapping against glass. “There was an incident, Greg. He was taken.”

Greg’s jaw works.  _ Taken. Not dead. _ Taken means he can’t panic. He’s always wondered how Mycroft could dig up the stores of energy and focus and single-minded determination to deal with the worst of the threats the country faces on a daily basis.  _ It’s this. _ A feeling of have-to that’s greater than anything else.

So even though his throat is burning, raw with a feeling he can’t quite shove all the way down, following her through the building.

That’s the only thing to do.

He walks behind her in a daze, hearing the blur of voices as they pass people who seem to be scrambling to do  _ something _ but he’s barely processing any of it.  _ Taken.  _ Taken can mean many things, he knows that, he’s seen it. Taken as a hostage, taken for ransom, taken- taken to  _ hurt- _

“-die on me, Mr. Holmes.”

Greg’s head snaps in the direction of the voice, his footsteps carrying him because his brain is too busy steeling itself against that phrase. It’s a video someone is watching, just a glimpse of part of the underside of some carpet, the leg of some furniture and….

Blood.

Death.

Even with smoke and ash, Greg can tell it’s bad.  _ Taken, she said. He’s okay.  _

_ This didn’t kill him. _

_ Right? _

A hand comes into view, and Greg knows instantly that it’s Mycroft’s. There’s his ring, that blasted antique that had driven Greg crazy before he finally worked up the courage to ask if Mycroft was actually single or not. Mycroft had the inside of the band engraved for their wedding, wanting a token only he would know about. Something that wouldn’t put Greg in danger just for their association. Greg wears his on a chain about his neck for the same reason.

_ Should’ve been more worried about you, love. _

Someone hauls Mycroft up, and Greg gasps as he sees just the briefest glimpse of red and something shattered, like wood, embedded in the soft fabric of Mycroft’s shirt.

_ I bought that shirt.  _ It’s a lovely salmon color. It makes him look warmer, more approachable. Better for meetings where he’s trying to actually work with people instead of scaring them into line.

The tech analyzing the film whips around. “Who are you?”

“He’s with me.” Anthea appears behind Greg, voice stern, pulling her hair back into a quick bun. “Run it again.”

It’s even more excruciating the second time. And the third. The camera focuses in on a catering display, national flags and macaroons in different bright colors, half toppled onto the floor where the camera catches them again as it’s hastily shoved under something, nudged with one of Mycroft’s perfectly shined Oxfords.

He can’t see Mycroft’s face.

The names must mean something to Anthea- she orders her team about, arranges contacts with foreign governments, alerts, voice recognition, clearances to bring in new foreign agents to assist. At some point the analyst leaves to analyze something else, and Greg sits.

And watches.

And watches.

Eventually his mind begins to calm. Mycroft needs him. His Mycroft, his gorgeous partner, needs him not to panic, not to wallow in worry. What would he be doing if he were here? If it were Greg snatched by some band of mercenaries?

His heart sinks. There’s no real way for him to know. He’s no Holmes. Greg’s never had one of those great big brains that can spot a killer from the rumples in his shirt. He does evidence. Clear evidence. 

What possible use can he really be here?

_ You aren’t without resources, darling,  _ Mycroft’s voice whispers to him, close enough that he could be standing right there. Greg can’t help it, his lip twitches into a brief, sad smile.

_ Cleverest man I know. You’d do better.  _

The spectre of Mycroft’s hand grazes his shoulder.  _ Nonsense. You’re a brilliant detective, and you see far more than most. _

_ Flatterer, _ Greg thinks fondly, trying not to wonder if he’ll ever hear Mycroft’s voice in person again. 

“I should be so lucky,” the voice on the recording says.

Greg’s brow furrows. 

He pauses it and plays it again. 

It’s- he’s heard it before. Something about the tone, or the phrase, but- he’s heard it. “Anthea,” he says softly, and she’s there in an instant. “Whoever’s talking to them- I know them.”

“ _ You  _ do?” He watches the gears turn in her mind, probably faster than Greg’s ever could, but reaching the same conclusion. Greg and Mycroft aren’t  _ out _ as a couple. People don’t generally know they’re married. Their circles have only ever publically overlapped at a few political dinners benefitting the Met or other police-related efforts. 

“Son of a bitch, he’s one of ours.” Anthea lets a string of curses fly under her breath as she summons rosters of politicians, donors and other interested parties, ordering her minions to cross-reference them with the guest lists of parties attended by both Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes. 

He watches her, trying to think- Greg’s never been great at names, and he’s not interested enough in politics to keep track of whose hands he’d been shaking. That’s always been more Mycroft’s area. His heart pulls at the thought, wondering if he knows. If he suspects who’s betrayed him. “It’s worse if it’s one of ours, isn’t it?” he asks the next time Anthea pauses not so much for breath but to pour another cup of coffee down her throat. 

“Yes. Very.”

Greg tries to keep his mind distant enough to look at it like he would if it were just a case. “S’because of the foreign dignitaries or whatever, yeah? Whoever else was there. Countries that won’t like it if it looks like England’s killing off their people.”

She looks at him narrowly as she pours another cup. “Did he tell you what the conference was for, Greg?”

“Security. But it’s always security, innit? Something big, but he didn’t say what- he just… wasn’t sleeping much, you know. He only gets like that when it’s big.” 

“Right.” Anthea considers. “Alright, listen. In Mycroft’s absence I have the highest security clearance for our little… side operation. I am making the executive decision to read you in. You can sign the paperwork about it later.” 

Greg always thought it was scarier being left in the dark. He thrives on information, after all, information solves cases.

It’s a lot more terrifying actually knowing what Mycroft has been up to.

He stands in front of Anthea’s board mapping out the points, the countries who sent their best people, maps of possible cells and attacks and death. The list of suspected local politicians that her people keep adding or subtracting to as more data is collected sits next to it, a string of photos that Greg keeps glaring at, like one of them will just  _ tell him _ where Mycroft is and which one of these pricks took him.

“Ma’am?” One of the analysts pokes their head in. “We’ve finally got the audio clear enough to run a vocal match against your list of names.”

“And?”

“And I think you’re not going to like the result.”

 

***

 

Greg’s fist clenches. Unclenches. Clenches again.

He knows from a rational standpoint he can’t just march into Lord Moran’s office and beat him until he gives up where Mycroft is.

But he really, really wants to. 

Anthea’s strategy is better, though. She has access to all of Mycroft’s usual eye-in-the-sky cameras, and a full team capable of backtracking all of Lord Moran’s movements as well as keeping active tabs on him. “We’ve suspected him of slipping information to the North Koreans for years, but he’s been clever enough about it that we’ve never been able to prove it.”

“You’re absolutely sure he’ll go- wherever it is he’s keeping Mycroft- in person?”

She nods. “He wouldn’t be able to resist being directly involved. It makes him feel important. Probably fancies himself terribly clever and dangerous, even though he isn’t . Bit of a step up for him though- I doubt he found a rocket launcher and a paramilitary team all on his own.” 

“So we just… watch?” 

She puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “Yes. We’re watching him and getting cameras on any sites he so much as glances at.”

Greg fidgets, playing with the hem of his shirt and resisting the urge to punch the wall. He knows the statistics well enough from regular kidnapping cases, he can’t imagine it’s too far off when it’s a handful of covert operatives who’ve been taken. Finding a major clue within 24 hours is best. After 24 hours the chances of recovery dwindle. After 48 they go down even further.

After 72 if there are no clues, no leads, nothing… the percentages become ridiculously low. 

“Why don’t you grab a nap, Greg,” Anthea offers gently. “I’ll get you as soon as we find anything. You can use Mycroft’s office.”

He agrees, though he doesn’t really feel tired, he just feels… raw. Fragile. But Mycroft needs him, needs him to keep it the fuck together, so if his body just needs to turn off for a bit, he’ll try. 

It’s hard once he gets into the room, though. This office isn’t really like their home. It’s a sort of little bunker, but definitively Mycroft’s stoic work persona in decor. One of those big wood desks he likes, an oversize portrait of the Queen- it’s a room he’s organized to convey a certain attitude, a devotion to Queen and country that he’s hoping to convey to his subordinates. 

The aesthetic is offset by the discreet pull-down bed that Anthea unfurls from one of the mirrored panels in the walls. 

Red sheets and a soft grey blanket- that’s more  _ his  _ Mycroft. Greg’s throat tightens. “Thanks, Anthea.”

“Of course. We’ll be just through there, if you need anything.”

She leaves him alone with the lights dimmed. He shrugs off his jacket, his shoes- Mycroft would be horrified if Greg put shoes on his bed. He almost laughs, but his body won’t laugh with him- it turns to a wracked sort of sob almost as soon as he inhales. His eyes are burning- he has to feel his way to the bed because his vision is too blurred. They sting when he wipes them, trying to stop, because there’s no  _ point  _ in sitting here weeping, is there, not when Mycroft is out there-

But the bed fucking  _ smells _ like him, and that does Greg in entirely. He buries his face in the pillow, sobbing, his fists clenched in the blanket, and when he does sleep it’s the dreamless sleep of exhaustion, dark and restless.

 

***

 

When Greg wakes, he takes some time to bury his face in water in Mycroft’s private bath. The soap here, the towels, the shampoo in the tiny shower his love must use when he stays here overnight- all of this smells so much of Mycroft that he nearly breaks down again, curling up on the tile with his head in his hands and his body shaking.

_ Mycroft wouldn’t cry though, if it were him, would he. He’d find answers. He’d find me. _

He plunges his head under water again, wipes it dry, and marches out.

Anthea doesn’t have any answers for him. They’re gathering data. It’s a slow process. Unless any leads leap out at them, there’s no one to run off after. Beating Lord Moran to a pulp is not going to get Mycroft back. And Greg  _ knows _ this, he does, because that’s how it is on cases. He’s either got a sobbing suspect in hand right off or he’s putting the pieces together slow and steady and concrete enough to make an arrest. 

Or-

“Anthea, is there- should we call Sherlock?”

He can see her thinking about it. Her lips purse. “I… don’t think so. Not- not in this case. If Mycroft were the only victim, yes, I do think Sherlock would be an asset. But there were ten people taken. If Sherlock does what he does, and runs in there with only the doctor for assistance-”

“You’re worried they’ll shoot him on sight?”

Anthea’s half-smile is desperately sad. “No, Greg. It’s terrorism, and I’d bet anything they don’t want any of them reporting back what they’ve seen.” She sighs and looks away. “They’d shoot the prisoners first.”

 

***

 

In retrospect, he probably disassociated.

There’s a sort of blurry gap and then he’s outside, a cigarette in his shaking hand.  _ Where did I even get a cigarette? _ He’d quit, they’d quit smoking together, it was one of the first things they’d done-

“Greg?”

He looks up. Anthea is trying not to look at him with pity, but he can tell anyway. He’s gotten used to Mycroft’s tells, hers aren’t that different. He’s exhausted and everything hurts but there has to be something he can  _ do _ .

“I think you should go home for a bit, Greg. Take a shower. Eat something.”

“Anthea- please, there has to be something-”

“There will be,” she says, her hand on his shoulder, though it sounds like she’s bracing for the worst. “But we have teams of people on it. As soon as there’s  _ anything- _ anything at all, we’ll call you, alright?”

He can’t. He can’t go, because what if there’s something he could’ve done if he was here instead?

“No, I- I’ll just- get another coffee. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

The canteen the security services has on offer is far better than the Met’s, and normally when he visits Mycroft it’s a thrill to feel like he’s stealing the posh coffee and the free biscuits. Now, looking at it all only makes him queasy. 

He forces down some crackers. It’s making him weak, this disruption to his schedule and the lack of food. His body is fighting it, fighting the unending dizzy feeling of stress and anxiety. 

_ And how often have you told me off for this?  _ Mycroft’s voice washes over him from behind. Greg huffs. Even his subconscious is conspiring against him. That or his brain is actually cracking under the strain.  _ If I were behaving like this you would be having none of it.  _

“That assumes you’re here, love,” Greg says to the air. 

_ You once woke up at four AM to ensure I had toast and berries before a dawn meeting. _

Alright, yes, fine. He did do that. 

_ And you’ve tossed your own officers off cases for being too dead on their feet to stand. _

Greg frowns. “Yes, fuck, fine.” He gets down a few more crackers and a glass of juice as well as the coffee. None of it tastes right.

He’s saved from figuring out what the hell else he’s meant to do by Anthea’s stern face in the doorway. “Greg. There’s been a breakthrough. We know where they are.”

 

***

 

“They escaped?”

Anthea nods, leading him back past the offices. “Mycroft helped them. Our surveillance people picked them up in an alley not far from where they were held. Basement of an old building Moran bought at auction a few years back.” 

There’s a woman waiting by a door farther down the hall, dressed in plain black. The outfit looks too clean and new to match the recently-treated cuts on her face and the bruising on her hands and knuckles. 

The look her eyes as she glances up is dark and dangerous. She’s unassuming, but he’s never been so certain that someone is unafraid to kill. Normally it’s the sort of thing that would set his police impulses off with a flare of anxiety.

At the moment, it makes him like her quite a lot.

“Greg, this is Fa.” Anthea guides both of them into the weapons storage area and distributes tactical gear. She looks a little hesitant about letting Greg dress like he’s going to be breaking down the door himself, but he keeps suiting up anyway. He has to be there. He’ll implode if he has to wait any longer. “She’ll be leading the extraction team since she knows the layout. Nassi, our other escapee, gave us as much debrief as he could, but he has to go under for surgery.”

“He will be annoyed he doesn’t get to kill any of them. Well, any more of them.” Fa smiles thinly. 

“Right. Greg- you can come, but behind the lines, yes? You aren’t trained for this.”

“I know.” 

Anthea slips off to give out other orders and load up the black van they’ll be using as transport.

Fa looks him over, eyes calculating in a way that reminds him of Mycroft. He holds her gaze. “You are his Greg, yes?”

He inhales. Had Mycroft mentioned him? “I am.”

“Mm. He said your name once or twice. In his sleep.” She holds out a shotgun. “You’ll want this.”

“Isn’t it- a little-?”

“Your police go unarmed. You are not trained to kill.” The corner of her lip turns up. “This one won’t care how well you aim, it will hit anyway.”

“Oh.” Greg thinks he likes her. “Thank you.” 

“He ensured our exit,” she says quietly, looking away. “It is the least I can do.” 

“Fa- why did he not-”

“He is very weak, Greg.” Her hand skims his arm as she finishes loading up and heads for the door. “He did what he could.”

He doesn’t like the way she says it. There’s a finality about it- an assumption that maybe-

_ No.  _ That isn’t an option. 

Greg gets in the van, holding the shotgun in his lap. The others give him a wide berth. He’s still an interloper, in a way. But none of them are going to stop him coming along either. 

 

***

 

The building in question is innocuous on the outside, but Fa assures them the basement and sub-basement have all been heavily fortified. “There will be resistance,” she says in a way that implies resistance is something she is planning to have a lot of fun with. 

Greg drifts behind the group, watching them move with precision, punching through the first door. Men and women in black armor march ahead, eliminating the first suggestion of guards with deadly, silenced shots. Fa directs a portion of the team to go unlock a cell- the cells are to be encountered as quietly as possible, so the prisoners don’t become a target. 

“Past them, right turn, near the back,” she murmurs as she passes Greg.

He blinks. His grip steels. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

She nods, and cocks her gun as she turns to Anthea. “The interrogation rooms are this way. I believe most of their number is as well.”

The group splits. Greg follows the smaller team, passing them as they break into a cage with four exhausted looking analysts. They all look injured, to varying degrees. Some from the explosion, some from-

_ Don’t overthink it. Don’t.  _ He just needs to get Mycroft out. He can worry about- whatever’s been done to them- later.

The back area is quiet. It puts his nerves on edge. There’s another cage, this one with the door standing open, like no one thought to close it. Like it didn’t need to be closed. Somewhere behind him, there’s a volley of gunshots and a few panicked screams, but he can’t worry about that. 

There’s blood on the floor, blood on the cot, blood on the arm dangling limply over the side-

And then Mycroft gasps, shaking, tearing into his own arm.

“Mycroft!” Greg runs for the door, calling his love’s name. “No- sweetheart- Mycroft!” He reaches to pull Mycroft’s hands off, assuming at first that he’s simply panicked, that he’s confused-

But then he sees the jagged little bit of metal clutched in his hand.

_ Oh- god, no, sweetheart- _

His heart breaks as he pulls it out of Mycroft’s hand, and forces him to stop trying to- do that. “ Myc, look at me. Look at me, gorgeous.”

Mycroft’s eyes look wild, unfocused. His fingers hook into Greg’s armor like he’s not entirely sure Greg is there. Greg chews the inside of his lip, forcing himself to be gentle as he lifts the gag- a gag that was once his love’s tie- from his mouth. He doesn’t really want to know why it’s there. He has a guess. It makes him want to scream and rage and sob all at once. He refrains, even when Mycroft’s gaze finally focuses and he tries to get Greg to leave, to go rescue the others. 

To go on without him.

“That’s Anthea’s problem, love,” he murmurs, forcing his voice to sound clear and strong and steady, because that’s what Mycroft needs. Greg has to be the rock for both of them, even if he feels like he’s shattering from the inside. “She’s got the cavalry. You get me all to yourself.”

“Greg- you have to tell them I didn’t talk- I didn’t- I’m meant to….” Mycroft’s eyes drift lower, looking at his arms like he wants to finish the job he’d started, and Greg feels a surge of rage that anyone has ever made him think  _ this  _ was the best option.

“Stop it,” Greg says, harsher than he’d like. “Just- stop that. You’re-” 

“Love- please, I’m… no use. Please, just- leave me here, and they won’t hurt you, you’ll be alright, I promise-”

_ “They won’t hurt you.”  _ There’s a surge behind Greg’s eyes, of wet and wrath.  _ All this- he thought this would help? _ He breathes, easing Mycroft up, waiting to speak until his throat doesn’t feel like it’s bleeding and his voice can stay even. He mutters about Fa getting vengeance as he tries to tuck the improvised bandages back into place, knowing it won’t really matter, because moving at all is going to be excruciating. But it has to happen. He has to get Mycroft out, before he- does anything else. 

Mycroft sobs when Greg lifts him, cradling him against his body armor. He’s lost weight here. Greg’s never been able to lift him so easily. He murmurs kindnesses, his mind already on the exit path. 

They make it to the first cage he passed before he hears footsteps. That breakout must have attracted attention.

Under normal circumstances Greg would have quite a lot of compunctions about firing a weapon at another person.

Unfortunately for them, he’s rather out of compunctions at the moment.

Some fool rounds the corner just as he gets Mycroft safely to the ground, tucked out of the way and with strict instruction to stay where he is. 

Greg punches him in the nose as hard as he can. 

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel good. 

A group of them round the corner of the corridor farther on, and Greg only sees red. It doesn’t matter whether any of them personally touched Mycroft, whether any of them caused any of the damage he’d seen. Whether they made him cry. They contributed. They all contributed.

He yanks the man he’d punched around by the jaw and marches him forward, covering himself behind him like a shield as the bastards farther on open fire. The body shakes. Greg doesn’t feel bad about it. He doesn’t really feel much at all. Only rage.

The shotgun is so easy to level over his human shield’s shoulder. He fires, and fires again, watching them drop. It’s an efficient weapon, as Fa said. Brutal. But efficient. 

He grips it tightly as he makes his way back. There’s movement where he left Mycroft. Greg fingers the trigger, preparing to fire again, to fire as many times as he has to-

The barrel lands directly in Mycroft’s face. Greg’s heart seizes. “Oh, bollocks.”  _ I could’ve shot him. I could’ve _ .  _ Just like the others.  _ He feels shaky all of a sudden, like he might throw up. Or cry. Both.  _ Breathe. Breathe. He needs you.  _ “Mycroft, I told you not to move, love. I could’ve shot you. Jesus.”

Mycroft lets out a broken noise, sobbing apologies at him. He wraps his love up, wiping a tear away when Mycroft can’t see him, trying to murmur encouragement that won’t sound like he’s about to burst into tears himself. “Just a bit further, alright? Just a bit further.”

He carefully lifts Mycroft again, but there’s no way to make it easier. Mycroft can’t stop crying and apologizing, and promising that he didn’t talk, he didn’t tell them anything.

“I know, sweetheart,” Greg murmurs back, even though he’s sure Mycroft can’t really hear him. 

Anthea’s ambulance team has arrived, and they try to get Mycroft down, but it’s a hard task when he’s clinging to Greg so hard. “Sir- we can take him from here-”

“I’m riding with him.”

“Mr. Holmes will be fine, sir-”

Greg’s eyes narrow at the medic. “He’s my fucking husband. I’m riding with him.”

They let him come. No one stops him again until they reach the hospital, when Mycroft’s hand finally has to be wrenched off his wrist so he can go into the secure surgical suite. They tell him to wait, even though he can hear Mycroft screaming. Screaming for him. 

Outside, with his head in his hands, Greg finally lets himself cry.

 

***

 

“Mr. Lestrade?” 

One eye snaps open, his face stuck to a faux-leather couch that he has to peel himself up from. Someone came, at some point, to take the body armor and the gun. Anthea’s people. They’d brought him clothes from home, and he’s past caring about her breaking in. He’s kept down half a cup of tea, but nothing else feels decent on his tongue. He just can’t manage it. If he hadn’t finally succumbed to exhaustion he probably wouldn’t have slept, either. It’s too anxious, waiting for someone to finally come out and tell him Mycroft is stable. That he’s really alright. Or whatever alright is, now. The way the staff has been looking at him, he’s pretty sure it’s not as alright as he’d like.

“I can take you back now.” The doctor carefully discusses Mycroft’s injuries as she takes him back. He has the feeling she’s being gentle with him. “Our greatest concern is for the, um. Self-inflicted lacerations. We’ve changed out the staples he was given for stitches, but- he does keep reaching for them.”

Greg’s brow furrows. “Has he-”

“Now that he is fully lucid, no. But when he has awoken and believed himself still under threat….”

“Right.” Right, because they couldn’t just damage his love’s body, they had to mess with his great beautiful mind as well.  _ Jesus. _

“He may require extra supervision, with regard to that, once he is released,” the doctor says gently. Greg nods.  _ God,  _ but this hurts. Part of him had still been hoping this would be like a movie, all nice and neat and tidy, even though he knows better, even though he’s seen it a thousand times at work. Healing never happens overnight. “He’s asleep now, but you can still sit with him.”

He’s let in to a softly lit room. Mycroft is hooked up to machines Greg doesn’t even recognize, looking painfully weak. Bruises he hadn’t seen in that dark dungeon have shown up now, mottling his face and arms and probably much more under his flimsy blanket and gown. Greg wants to cry and scream at the same time. He does neither, just pulls up a chair and ignores the welling of his eyes as he takes Mycroft’s hand.

“Hey love,” he murmurs, thumb stroking over the bones of Mycroft’s hand. “You had me worried.” Mycroft only vaguely stirs, his fingers curling around Greg’s palm. “Yeah, it’s me. Think you were scared for me, love, but I’m fine. Promise.” He wipes at his eyes, which keep being wet despite his best efforts. “M’fine and I’m right here.”

He keeps talking, trying to be soothing. Mycroft shifts, eventually, his eyes fluttering. “Is that you coming back to me, love?” Greg pulls the chair closer. “Hey gorgeous.”

Mycroft looks confused for a bit, then his face changes- he’s frightened, and his hand grasps for his side-

Greg grabs it, his throat tightening. “Leave that.” He has to work not to shout, because he knows it won’t help. “Sorry- sorry, love. But you- we’re going to keep an eye on things, alright, and it’s best if you just don’t… touch any of it. Yet.”

“Alright.” Mycroft’s voice is soft, almost scared, and Greg’s heart pulls. It’s so hard not to be angry that this happened, and he hates that he’s angry at Mycroft too, in a way. Even if he doesn’t want to be.  _ Why did you try it, love? What would be worth losing you?  _ “Gregory, I’m not… at risk . It was-”

The dam on the anger breaks. “Mycroft, if you say it was necessary, I am going to have to leave this room.” Mycroft’s eyes are so wide as his lips close. Vulnerable.  _ He’s never looked like that before. _ Greg looks down, pinching the bridge of his nose.  _ Breathe. It’s not his fault. Breathe. _ “I realize you- look, you don’t have to talk about it, I know there’s-”

“It’s what- it’s part of our training- protect the information, no matter-”

The anger rears up. “Sod the information, Mycroft, what about you?” Greg’s face is damp, his throat raw.  _ Why couldn’t you wait? Why did you have to- try this? _ “I didn’t go in there to protect your precious data, I went in there for you. We weren’t going to give up, you know, me and Anthea. Not either of us.”

Mycroft cries in quiet sniffs that break Greg’s heart, trying to explain. He’d done it for Greg, of course. Not just because of his damnable training, but so his husband couldn’t be taken and tortured as well.

The anger shatters. “I would have gone, love. I would have if it meant you weren’t alone down there. Happy to go. I just couldn’t bear it if I lost you, Myc. You’re- everything. You are my everything.” They’re both crying, then, and the words scarcely matter any more. He climbs onto the cot, navigating the wires and tubes so he can hold Mycroft close, and feel Mycroft hold him in turn, begging him not to go.  _ I love you. I love you, I’m never leaving.  _ “Don’t worry, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

***

 

Getting Mycroft home was never going to be easy.

He’s in hospital for a long time under the watchful eye of Anthea and her people. It’s a special hospital, outfitted for the particular needs of the security services, where Mycroft won’t be bothered by the outside world. Plenty of doctors and nurses attend to Mycroft’s every need, especially in the early days when his surgeries must be closely monitored. Greg stays with him as much as he can. 

“Five more, love,” he encourages as Mycroft does his exercises, things to strengthen muscles and tendons and ligaments that have all been subjected to so much. Mycroft is amiable to all of those, happy to put in the work.

It’s the therapy appointments that prove a little troublesome.

“I don’t want to.”

Greg exhales slowly through his nose. “I know. I don’t want to either, but I’m going to mine and it  _ is _ helping, Myc.” It’s true. While he’s still angry and sometimes still gets stuck in thinking about the bleakness of it- the torture, Mycroft’s attempt to end it, even the men he’d shot- it is easing. “If you let it, it can help you more, but you’ve got to try first.”

“I just don’t see the point in rehashing it for the umpteenth time. They know what happened, I’ve documented it in every form they could ask for. Talking about it is- a redundancy. It isn’t useful.” Mycroft doesn’t usually look at him when they discuss therapy. It’s too… raw. And he’s far too observant to be unaware that Greg still gets angry about all of it sometimes, despite all of Greg’s efforts to tamp that down.

“You don’t get to decide if it’s useful, love. M’sorry, but that’s in someone else’s hands.”

When Mycroft is finally ready to leave the hospital, Greg isn’t prepared for the nightmares. He’d seen them at the hospital, of course, but those were easily dealt with- he or someone from the staff could wake Mycroft up and give him something to help him sleep. 

At home there’s just Greg, and far less easy drugs on offer to ease the way.

Each one of Mycroft’s terrors sets him up for hours too. All of his fears play up- fear that there’s someone else in the house, fear that Mycroft’s been taken from him again. He’s probably sleeping even less than Mycroft is. It’s not until the second week of near sleeplessness that Greg gives up and makes a pot of coffee at 4am.

Mycroft manages to sleep soundly from four ’til nearly noon. Greg tries it out again the next night, brewing a pot as soon as the first of Mycroft’s terrors hits around 2am. 

Somehow it works. 

He invests in a fancy programmable unit that can brew small amounts more or less all night, and finally he gets some sleep. It’s much nicer when he can wake up next to Mycroft when Mycroft is still comfortable and warm and not tense and shouting. 

A well-rested Mycroft is a touch more amiable to seeing his therapist, it turns out, and while the progress there is slow- and likely not what the security services wants out of him- he’s in a much stronger place when he decides that he actually can’t continue on in his position. Consulting suits him better, Greg’s found so far. He’s happier, he’s better fed, and he’s fully confident in Anthea’s ability to succeed him. 

Greg’s just happy he can come home to his husband.

“Here’s your cocoa, love.” Cocoa is Mycroft’s reward for tolerating Greg’s takeover of the television whenever Arsenal is playing. Mycroft in Greg’s lap is Greg’s reward for making the cocoa in the first place, exactly as Mycroft likes it (mostly milk, with dark chocolate and a dash of mint). 

He holds Mycroft close. Sometimes he stops listening to the game just to appreciate that he can hear Mycroft breathing, that he can hear Mycroft’s heartbeat. That he can see the light glinting off the ring Mycroft’s moved to his left hand, and the matching shine on his own. “Cocoa meet your approval, love?”

Mycroft turns in his arms, nuzzling closer. “Yes. Very much so.”

“Good.” 

He buries his nose in Mycroft’s hair and kisses him, earning a contented noise from Mycroft in response as he nestles his cheek into Greg’s chest. “I love you, my darling.”. 

Greg inhales, the chocolate-mint-coffee scent of his love filling him. It’s what home smells like, now. He wouldn’t have it any other way. “I love you too, gorgeous. I love you too.”


End file.
